


Waiting for My Man

by trickseybird



Series: illogically and without trepidation [1]
Category: The Velvet Underground
Genre: Drug Use, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-10
Updated: 2017-04-08
Packaged: 2018-02-08 06:15:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1929801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trickseybird/pseuds/trickseybird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John was an angry drunk. Once, Lou had seen him pick up a shot glass and smash a girl’s teeth in. Later that night, she had come back to fuck him, her words gluggy with blood and painkillers. And in some corner of his brain, Lou had always connected sex with violence when it came to John Cale.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A few years ago, SweetDeceiver and I discovered that there were abysmally few Lou/Cale fics on the net, and decided to change this. This fic was inspired by Cale's description of his squeamish reaction to needles, which Lou helped him overcome.

Lou was impatient, tapping a tart rhythm on his arm. ‘Ah, Jesus, man.’ He fucking hated this part, and said so.

John said nothing. 

Lou leant forward on his knee, watching him, as John's bony hands caught the gear with unstudied elegance. His fingers hesitated, and he scowled. ‘You do it.’

‘No skin off my back,’

‘Nose.’ John corrected.

Lou bristled, rolling his sleeve. ‘You should know, man.’

John smiled, nastily. He held his eye, and Lou broke first.

 

‘Are you in good health?’ Lou made a show of tapping the needle, slowly. ‘Any history of mental illness in your family? Taking any medications?’ His voice was sarcastic and baiting, and John recognised the challenge. ‘Prescription or otherwise?’ Lou pressed the last word, trying to catch his eye.

John watched the needle, jaw tight.

‘Aw, you gotta take your mind off it.’

He startled at Lou’s hand on his arm, and Lou got down to business, looking for a line of blue. His touch was brisk and professional, so John’s breathing slowed with his instructions: ‘Look, lie down. Pull your sleeve up. Higher. I need to get the bastard in your arm.’

 

Lou concentrated on his poker face. John’s features were harsh in this light, the corner of his mouth eating the shadows of the room. His arm had a slight seam from his jacket, now neatly folded under his head.

‘Stop fucking around and just do it, will you?’ John said.

Lou continued his examination, noting that his patient's skin was slightly clammy. He wiped his hand against John's jeans.  
‘You’re the boss, apple sauce.’ Lou wedged his knee between John’s thighs and slipped a sly thumb under his belt. There was a moment of confusion. John squawked, as he tossed Lou off with distaste.

‘Goddamnit, you weird fucker,’ Lou tried for indignation, biting back a laugh. ‘I need your belt.’

John’s skin colouring brightly, unused to blushing.

 

John was so careful, he thought. Measured. He mimed a belted tourniquet on his arm, and John’s hands fell passive at his side. Lou positioning him like a ragdoll; his eyes gleamed with the advantage. Reefing the belt, Lou made certain to bruise against John’s pointed hip as he held his hand there for leverage.

‘Quit twitching; I know what I’m doing.’

‘Evidently,’ John returned, wryly.

‘Screw you.’ Lou’s voice was ugly. He could see John roll his eyes under closed lids.

‘You gotta quit thinking about it,’ Lou started tightening the belt against John’s arm, ‘it’s like a magic trick.’

Enjoying the pressure, John ignored him, letting notes trickle through his head.

 

‘Everybody’s looking at the guy’s hand with the cards, right? But it doesn’t mean shit.’ He pressed the tip against skin, and John stiffened. ‘But what’s really going down, the really interesting thing, is what’s happening,’ Lou waited for his moment, ‘with the other hand.’


	2. Accidentally on Purpose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Early days in the VU

"John, god damnit!" Sterling hissed over the feedback. 

John sniffed, and took an unsteady step backwards from the pedal. "I don't need your good opinion."

The crowd was irritated and antsy, and the tension on the stage was causing a stir. Lou's eyes flicked uncertainly to Sterling. He looked hurt, holding his shoulders hunched. 

"Go, man. Play. Jesus, what have I gotta do?" 

Sterl flicked his finger against a string, pressing it against a callous on his index finger. Satisfied with his compliance, Lou turned his back on them all, keeping his eyes low and dark behind sunglasses. "This is called The Gift. It's about a guy and his piece of shit girlfriend."

The music began gathering force and drowned him out. John began reciting the story, and Lou prickled when he tripped up over a line. His performance was interior; he played the part perfectly careless, bobbing his head like a draught horse. The stage was ill-lit, and felt curiously empty without Warhol's entourage. He was still wired. 

The song gathered pace, Moe beating the drums like an erratic heartbeat to keep pace with the boys as they bristled against one another. John's eyes lit up, savouring the bloodiness of the conclusion, showing his teeth and he bit off each word. 

The crowd dissipated, confused. Lou lay down his guitar near John and caught his eye. 

"I'm going to get you for this," Lou purred. 

John's smile was mean, and barely perceptible.

The noise of the room died down and Moe caught Sterling's eye. "Let's get a beer."

Sterl cast a sulky look back at the stage and Moe made a clunky effort to jump on his back. His face broke into a smile. Moe stared back, looking at his brown eyes, patchy skin. He shook his hair over his eyes self-consciously. 

"You shmuck," she said sweetly. "Am I gonna have to kick your ass?"

"Let's just." He paused, nervous. "Let's get the hell outta here before he starts."

"No! There's no fucking way," Sterl shouted through the hotel door. "Screw you John."

John beat at the door and there was a sound of broken glass, and swearing. 

Moe gripped a beer bottle between her knees, and burped roundly.

"You deserve each other. Hear that!" Sterling treasured his moment of bravado and turned up the record player.

"Oh man." Moe put a hand to her mouth and missed. "We're gonna be in trouble tomorrow. Oh man, ha. Oh, Shit."

"You ruined the set! They're gonna think we're amateurs. Think we don't know what we're doing."

"I am a musician, Lewis." John sank bonelessly into a chair. "And it was your fault for getting that regulation, bullshit, equipment."

"Yeah, you can get whatever you take." Lou smiled, then kicked open his suitcase, pissily.

"I'm not perfectly satisfied with our present circum-present," John flicked his wrist impatiently. "Bottle.'

Lou's smile soured, and he reached into the suitcase, throwing the bottle to John before he claimed it. His ears were still ringing. "Where did you get that shit, man? I need a poke. I don't give a shit what they cut it with." His posture was threatening. 

John recognised the bait and took it, with pleasure. "He left."

Lou unbuttoned his shirt, and John looked at the carpet, glaring. He pulled out a thick leopard print jacket and draped it around his shoulders. "Light me a smoke."

Before he could think to refuse, John walked to the bed and started rolling a cigarette, forgetting the bottle. When he looked back, Lou was holding cheap, sparkly earrings in one hand, turning them in the light. 

"Diamonds are a girl's best friend, John honey," he drawled in a honeyed tone. 

Fixed by the light on the earrings, and the complete strangeness of the situation, John didn't move, as Lou advanced. Taking advantage of the weak state, Lou crawled on the bed, twisting and mewing, watching John's eyelids flutter. 

"Hurry! Hurry! The captain is coming!" Lou made his mouth into a perfect blow up doll "O", then laughed snidely. "C'mere."

John's movements mellowed. He let himself be pulled onto the bed, undressed, violated. His voice was slurred, but his eyes were wide, lashes thick with exhaustion. "What was? You put something. That wine."

"Shh, shut it. John, c'mon. Hey, you're tired. You took too much. Who knows what they put in that, right? Aw, shit."

Lou pulled him onto the bed, unbuttoning his shirt and pinching hard and kissing harder at John's skin, indiscriminately. He held his breath as the skin changed, rosy and pale. John struggled for a moment, a last drowning movement, messy and desperate. He climbed over him, riding the spasm. 

Lou gasped as John's arm flung out, hitting him full in the face. "You fucker. You ratbastard." 

He wiped the trace of blood and spat at him on the bed, wasted and lean.

"You ruin everything." Lou hissed into his ear, brushing aside the unwashed hair. "You need me. John. John? Cale, goddamn." 

John's breathing slowed, snuffling from his nose. 

"You want this. I know it, when we're playing. I always know it. You're just too fucking square to...know it." Lou's voice was insistent. He pressed his face close to Cale's pigeon chest. Cale coughed a breath, then rolled on his side, snorting as Lou's coat met his nostrils. 

John's lips paled, and his teeth met. Lou tucked the coat over them, cocking his head to rest on Cale's shoulder. "You know when I was young, I mean, in high school, man. I wanted to play football. Oh, yeah I was going to be a jock. Get lost." He ran a finger over John's ribs, pulling his fingers lower, jabbing at his hips, under his jeans. Worrying at the skin. Lou resisted the urge to press himself into John's side, bruise his skin with his fingers. He splayed his fingers against his cock, and breathed in John's neck. "Living the American dream, you and me," Lou said, bitterly. 

"You're so fucking repressed, you might as well go back to England."

"Wales."


	3. Leaving it up to you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Lou felt John’s breath on his hand. The ridge in his eyebrows cast his eyes black and glittery. A little powder blew off as he exhaled, then, in one movement, John took all of Lou’s finger into his mouth. Running his tongue flat to catch the bitter taste of the powder, he bit at the tip until Lou snatched it away._

‘Lou, show them how to dance to your music! Gerard had some far-out moves, it was like lightning, zap!’ Ingrid trilled, shooting a mean smile at Lou.

‘Aw, shit, I don’t know.’ Lou mumbled, then followed her gaze to Andy. ‘Oh honey,’ he amended, raising his voice, ‘tell me about it!’

‘Andy, did you see the dances Gerard was doing, with the whip?’ Ingrid was loud, but restrained. She hovered over Andy as he bent to the silkscreen, watching a boy painting tomato red, his muscles moving beneath his shirt. It was late afternoon. Andy considered for a moment, and left the boy to work.

‘Oh gee, sure. I mean, I couldn’t really see, with the projections, but Gerard is really…great.’ Andy trailed off, and the group turned to him expectantly. ‘He’s really like a wild animal, don’t you think?’

‘Yes! Grrr!’ shouted Ultra, leaping at Ingrid. Her top had fallen loose and her swarthy breasts were showing as she sank her head back.

‘You should undo her buttons. Right there.’ Andy looked for a moment as though he might smile, then turned and walked to Lou. Ingrid continued talking about the dance, punctuating each sentence by undoing a button on Ultra’s top. 

‘They were facing backwards, the wrong way and I mean, I think Lou was on a trip, because he was turned around and the noise!’

Lou put a hand to his hips, but Andy interrupted him, linking a limp arm through his. ‘I really think you should write some songs for Nico –’

‘But she can’t sing.’ Lou said, bitchily. Andy raised his eyebrows and he deflated.

‘Oh, that doesn’t matter at all. It’s going to be a spectacular. There’s really going to be so much going on,’ he said, waving a hand. ‘Maybe you should take her to the party tonight. She’s so glamorous!’ he breathed.

‘Where’s it going to be?’ Lou asked, eagerly, his eyes nervous.

‘I don’t know. Ultra? Are we going to the Chelsea, darling?’ he watched the group flicking paint onto Ultra’s chest, and flecks of cherry pink on her nose. ‘Do you think we should go to the Chelsea?’ he asked Lou. 

Lou blushed, unsure of Andy, and pretended not to hear. ‘Oh wow, there’s Nico,’ Andy said vaguely, then turned back to the group. ‘Where’s my camera?’

‘Nico,’ Lou said her name reluctantly, and again, when she didn’t hear. She waved her fingers and turned away, on the brink of tears. Lou steered her aside, eyeing her behind dark glasses. 

‘You’re upset,’ he said, evenly.

‘Ahhm,’ she choked on a vowel. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she replied, with dignity. Nico blinked heavy eyelashes too wide, careful to stop tears.

Lou watched her, almost forgetting to breathe, then, moved by love or spite, he pulled her to him, smearing her tears and makeup with his hand. ‘Hey c’mon, I told Andy I’m going to write you some songs,’ he drawled. ‘C’mere baby,’ he said softly, his eyes dark. ‘Are you coming to the party tonight? Are you going to be my girl?’

‘I don’t know.’ Nico said, wetly. ‘I will think about it.’

John walked into the room with Sterling, his eye on the door. ‘We don’t have enough to share. They’re animals, they’ll take it. They’ll suck it up their filthy –,’ his words were hurried, and murky with his accent.

Already a little high, Sterling brushed him off. ‘They’re just little girls,’ he said, grinning at the group, his lips loose.

‘Per-fect.’ John spat. He glowered in Lou’s direction, but softened as he saw Nico’s face, streaked with black.

Lou had his cheek against her neck, looking almost harmless, delicate.

John tripped on his boot, and cursed.

‘Oh!’ Nico felt John’s stare, and cupped a hand over her eyes. ‘I am leaving,’ she announced to no one. She left, deliberately. Lou grabbed after her then frowned, self-conscious. He rocked on his boots, and half started for the group. Sterling was pulling a nameless girl's thin legs into his lap.  
Sterl smiled distantly as Ondine queenily copied her pose, ineffectually pushing him off.

‘Oh, now why should they girls get all the fun!’

‘Would you like to paint my breasts? Andy says he’s going to have an exhibition, and all the paintings are going to be on my breasts. One here, and one here.’

‘There’d be more room between your legs, darling!’ the pretty boy beside her singsonged.

Sterl shook his head, bemused. Accepting the joint from John’s hand, he let his vision go soft.

John was satisfied. He blew thick smoke rings, swatting at Sterl’s hand as he tried to feel his chin, bristling at stubble.

‘S nothing there yet,’ he said, rolling the r, eyelids fluttering.

Sterl wiggled his eyelids. ‘Ss nuthing tharrr,’ he said affectionately, garbling John’s accent. ‘Jesus, we need Lou to translate when you’re high.’ The group collapsed into giggles.

Lou realised he didn’t know how long he’d been standing in the spot Nico had left him. Andy stood behind him, at a distance, having broken from the group.

Lou turned, indecisively, choking on his spit as he saw Andy. ‘Jesus! How long were you there?’

‘I didn’t think rockers were afraid of anything,’ said Andy, simply.

‘You’re like a ghost, you're always sleepwalking’ he bitched, his pride bruised.

‘Gee. Wouldn’t that be so exciting? Wow, a ghost. I don't even know how, I mean, you could see everything if you were a ghost.'

He looked past Lou. ‘You should write a song about it.’

Lou took off his glasses. ‘Do you even like my music, Andy?’

‘Oh, I don’t know anything about music. You should ask Paul.’

Lou’s face went dark for a moment. He pouted. ‘Do you like me, Andy?’

‘Sure I do, sure. Do you want a cigarette?’ Andy jiggled the packet, and the moment was broken.

‘Jeez. I haven’t had a damned smoke all day.’

Andy bristled at his language, but drew out a cigarette, offering it to Lou. He rounded his lips, chastely, toying with the smoke in his hand.

‘Do you have a light?’

Lou thought of all the times he’d been the one asked that question. Nights so cold his piss steamed on the sidewalk. He thought of all the times he’d said yes (more, now, again).

‘Uh. No.’ Andy felt automatically at his shirt pockets.

Lou smiled ruefully, and then crossed the floor, calling out brightly for a light.

John had slid to the floor. His foot pushed at a strange angle against the table, with his head resurfacing above it, cut off at the nose. Ingrid and the boy were cutting open a tiny blue pill, which sprinkled sugar coloured pink powder on the table.  
Lou had allowed himself to be adopted by Ultra, and she wound her necklace around his curly hair. He breathed in deeply the smell of cigarette and drying paint, making sure to blow the smoke in John’s face.

‘Lou! Try this first. We don’t know what it is, and I want to know it won’t damage my pretty little brains.’ Ingrid’s smile was wolfish.

‘Alright.’ Lou sucked on a finger and heaped it with powder, his other hand stubbing the end of his cigarette. From the floor, John remembered to resent the smoke, and coughed aggressively.  
Very delicate of the powder, Lou slung a leg over John’s, pinning him with his knee as he proffered the finger. ‘John?’

Andy walked over, carrying a tin of paint. ‘We need blue’, he said, pointing at Ultra’s breasts.

‘We should paint you when you play sometime,’ he told Sterling. ‘Ohh, that would be fantastic. And we could paint Maureen’s breasts.’ Sterling sat bolt upright, his eyes red from smoking. 

‘No.’

Everyone’s eyes were on Andy and Sterl, and John’s look turned cunning.

Lou felt John’s breath on his hand. The ridge in his eyebrows cast his eyes black and glittery. A little powder blew off as he exhaled, then, in one movement, John took all of Lou’s finger into his mouth. Running his tongue flat to catch the bitter taste of the powder, he bit at the tip until Lou snatched it away.

‘Oh man,’ he said. ‘Oh man.’

John closed his eyes and snorted, a long breathy laugh shaking his body.

‘You rat bastard,’ Lou kicked at John, who continued to howl with his private joke.

Sensing a trick, Ingrid pulled him away, petting at his hair. ‘What is it, Lewis?’

‘Fuck arff. You can all go to hell, you know that?’

Ingrid wheezed, then told him in a dangerously low tone, ‘Do you know what we all call you?' Her face was wolfish and square, menacing. 'Lulu! Because you’re just a ridiculous, mincing queer.’

Lou balled his fist at her, then, frustrated, punched his own thigh.

Andy had come back with the blue paint. ‘Do you need some oh, what’s that stuff called…? Do we have any of that, Ondine?’

Lou put his glasses back on and walked.

 

He lay three feet from the door, where he’d fallen when he walked in. The thick perfume taste of gin was soaked into him, and he gagged, letting his room spin. The floor was cold and hard, but on considering making a fire from the dregs of the night before, Lou decided he couldn’t be fucked.

‘Lou, are we going to the party tonight? John said you would be here.’ Nico’s voice was loud and quavering behind the door.

Lou rolled onto his stomach, unbuttoning his jeans as they pressed against it, thinking whether he could end the conversation by choking on his own vomit.

‘Some guys get all the luck,’ he told himself, and then repeated it, in a droning imitation of Nico’s voice. ‘That’s a song. Nico, I have a song for you!’ He paused for effect. ‘Ha.’

The apartment was all but black, the one window showing a too-bright moon. The main area was mostly bare. Broken crates half used for firewood punctuated the space. Lou crawled to the black ashes from the night before. He savoured the concrete, rubbing cool on his skin as he drew in the ash with his finger, losing time.

‘Lou. Let me in.’ The voice was curt, and rounded.

‘Nico? I have a song. I wrote one.’

The sigh from outside was audible, and melodramatic.

John fidgeted at the keyhole and then, using a trick he’d learned from the landlord, forced the lock with a short piece of metal he kept there, to purpose. He switched on the light, blurrily making out the moon. The room smelt rank, and familiar. John's step was unsteady, but purposeful. 

Until he tripped over Lou.

‘Are you trying to make it with me?’

‘Shut up,’ said John. He fell like a wet sack over Lou's pale form. Vying for position, he elbowed Lou’s rib. As he gasped in pain, John smiled, blissfully sinking back. Lou hesitated, bonesore from the impact of the concrete, but gratified by the warmth.

‘I hate you,’ he said, conversationally.

‘Shut up,’ John said crossly but without much venom, slurring his words. He noticed for the first time Lou was missing his trousers, but his fuzzy mind couldn’t think of a reason to reprimand him. The round, pale apple of his arse looked tempting. Without thinking, John let his hand fly, spanking him with an open palm that lingered overlong.

‘Christ, John, what’s your problem?’ Lou whipped round, looking less than righteously indignant without his pants. He was burning from alcohol and shame, and a creeping sense of pleasure. John looked indifferent, and proud. Then he lowered his gaze, breathing sharply from his nose.

Watching John’s discomfort, Lou felt more reckless. ‘Damnit, I’m sweating like a dog,’ he lied, peeling off his shirt.

Lou stifled a grin as John stared too hard, and then turned away in distaste. His legs were still dirty, mostly stained with black and flecks of grey. Walking to the window, conscious of John pretending not to watch, he slipped off his remaining clothes, clumsy but confident from the gin.

‘What did that pill taste like?’

‘I’m going to bed.’ John grunted, in the low, murky tone that only Lou could make sense of.

Lou followed him to his door, smirking. ‘You gonna show me what else that tongue is for?’

John turned on him, vicious, and slammed him into the doorway. ‘I know you. I know yer tricks,’ he spat. ‘Parading around, queen bitch. eend, freak.’ John curled long cautious fingers in Lou’s hair, then reefed, hard. Lou ran his hands madly, for a hold, fighting John’s pull, his eyes watering as John worried a handful of flesh.

Lou pushed back, hard. ‘You’re gonna play at being one of the girls, but you’re as straight as they come, right John?’ His throat was exposed, still panting from the struggle. ‘You’re one of those bitches who can’t finish what she starts.’

He pressed his hand against John’s belt, working the thumb lower, in determined circles. He stood shell-shocked, and Lou worked his advantage, gnawing on his neck and tasting salt. ‘Pricktease.’

The word bought John from his stupor. He was disgusted and excited in equal measures; by Lou’s white thighs, peppered black with ash, his naked cock small with the cold, pressed flush against him as John stood fully clothed. He knew how to deal with Lou, knew the treatment he responded to.

‘Everyone likes you at first,’ he said, as superciliously as he could manage, his head feeling light. ‘And then,’ he ran fingers pointedly down Lou’s side, pleased as Lou’s arms, thick with muscles, went weak from the attention. ‘They get to know you.’

John grabbed Lou’s hair again and threw him onto the bed, feeling a thrill as Lou took a defensive position. John leaned over him, menacingly professional in his black three-piece. ‘And they see how fucked up you are,’ he let the sentence hang.

Lou thought about the party, Nico alone, drugged and sad. And he thought of Andy.

‘I’m the only one who knows the dark thoughts you have, and comes back for more. It’s only me.’ He whispered hot and spiteful, in Lou’s ear.

‘If I’m a monster,’ Lou was on his knees, clutching at John’s collar. ‘What does that make you, man?’

John threw him down, and started ripping at his belt. ‘I’m going to give it to you.’

Lou felt sick again, and wondered whether to blame the gin. ‘Get outta here,’ he said uncertainly.

But the Welshman said nothing as he chewed the back of his neck; hurt him, bruised against his spine with his fingers. ‘I’m going to tear you apart,’ he said, his voice pitched strangely with lust and loathing.

Lou buried his face into the bed, his ears bright red with pain. ‘Oh God, fuck,’ The pain and shame somehow made it more intimate. Lou grimaced as his body was slammed into the bed, raw from John's careless, violent fucking. 

‘Damn right, damn right’ John hissed back. He grimaced, out of rhythm, kissing and tearing at Lou’s neck furiously as he came. 

Lou tangled himself in dirty sheets, rolling on his side and breathing shallowly.

John smiled, lazily brushing threads of semen into the centre of Lou's back, where he couldn't reach. 

'Lie with me.'

‘I still hate you,’ said Lou.

‘Shut up,’ said John.


	4. Coney Island Baby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set during the VU reunion in 93; in his bio John mentions a weekend where Lou came round.

Fax received at 11.00am:  
Lou,  
This isn’t only about credit where it’s due, it’s about money. You didn’t want to pay me, I know that. Tell me straight, don’t bullshit me.  
John.

Fax received at 2.00pm:  
John,  
These are my songs. They’re my goddamn songs, and I should produce them. You think you can fuck me around because you’ve talked Mo and Sterl around, forget it. Anyway, you’ve got no legal case. My manager says I shouldn’t be communicating with you, as it could compromise my position.  
Lou.

Fax received at 3.00pm:  
Lou,  
Yeah, sure. She has less than nothing to do with it. I don’t want to waste time arguing. We’re too close to this now, we’re both bone tired. Why don’t you come up to my place this weekend and we can work all this out. I’m twitchy, I need a buzz. I need some action.  
John.

Fax received at 3.07pm:  
John,  
I can’t just drop everything and come running when you call. Jeez, I’m not your ex-wife. Or I’d be riding half of New York. HA.  
Lou.

Fax received at 11.30am:  
Fine, you arrogant prick. I'll be there at two.  
Lou.

 

‘This was banned in three countries,’ he said impressively.

Lou’s eyes felt yeasty from lack of sleep. His breathing was shallow, and the top of his thighs felt hot. John moved back in his chair, and Lou caught a glimpse of his watery hard-on as the fabric shifted. 

He looked away, shut his eyes. Deliberately not thinking of the sheen of sweat on Cale’s brow now, as he flicked away his fringe. Of yesterday on the squash court, when John had thrown his racquet at the wall and pinned him there, his face red from effort and emotion. His eyes slid back.

John adjusted himself, unaware, uncaring. Touching himself through his cotton trousers because it felt good. Because of the girls in the film, their fake tits sprayed in fake blood (it wouldn’t spurt like that from her nose, he thinks critically). And because of Lou, and the tension that had been building for the last few days. 

John never thought of their encounters in terms of sexuality, just...opportunity.

But he was out of there in the morning. John thought darkly of the expensive car Lou would have pick him up. He'd arrived in the night, two days before, without fanfare, slugging a bag. John didn't know how he'd got there; he didn't care to ask. He was reminded forcibly of restless nights together, trawling the streets for a fight or a fuck. 

'You're drunk' 

'No shit, Sherlock.' 

John rolled his eyes and stepped from the doorway, not checking if Lou followed.

'Where's your old lady?' Lou searched through his bag, seeming intent on the task. 

'She's not here.' John said, curtly. 

Lou waited, but he didn't elaborate. John suddenly took it into his head to play the host, tossing his head to indicate the fridge, and the cabinet where the spirits were kept. 

They fell into the old rhythm, a prickly give and take, reassuring in its familiarity.

 

The phone in the next room started to ring; Lou stared hard at the fabric of the couch, not recognising the metallic sound. 

'It's the phone, it's. I only just got it, eend I had to get one cause the old one was broken,' explained John, noticing his confusion. 

Lou looked up, dizzy with the motion.

‘Hey baby girl,’ John said warmly, his voice a little rough. ‘It’s late. Are you, where are you? No, I haven't seen your bunny slippers. Listen, is your mother there?’ 

‘Is that Edith? Put me on!’ Lou said, in a voice loud with drink.

‘Yeah, he’s here,’ he said hesitantly. ‘No, I don't think –’ John made a long suffering face as he listened to his daughter. 

Lou melted into the couch, studying John’s profile. He lingered on the crags and discoloured skin, recognising them with the mix of nostalgia and regret of an old lover. He was awoken from his reverie by John swearing loudly as he banged his elbow against the phone. 

‘Wait, a sec. Daddy, am I on speaker phone?’

John grit his teeth and pressed buttons furiously.

‘Uncle Lou?’

‘Hey Edith, honey, how you doing?’ Lou said in a tone that made John shoot him a black look.

John mumbled a quick goodbye, and crossed the room in three strides. 

'How old's your girl, John? She'd be getting a sweet little ass on her by now. Hmph.'

John ignored him, and sank into the couch with stiff dignity. 'She's ten.'

'Oh,' said Lou, losing interest. 

'And if you so much as look at her when she grows up, I'd hang you by yer neck and make your ass bleed.'

'You says that about everything,' Lou said, contrarily. 'If you take the last beer, Lou, I'll hang you by yer neck and make your ass bleed.'

'Well I don't need much excuse,' said John, raising an eyebrow. 'Fucked any transvestites lately, Lou?' He finished his glass with a grimace, the ice cold against his teeth.

'Yeah. You?' Lou said, conversationally. He parted his lips, sparking sexuality and sarcasm. 

John tried not to flinch as Lou's hand touched against his, tracing patterns on the couch. He considered him for a moment and said, 'Your neck is, you look like a tor-, one of those, in the sea - a tortoise.'

'None of us is getting any younger, asshole,' Lou said bitterly, then smiled as he noted the nervous look in John's eyes.

John flicked his fringe from his eye.

 

'What's your favourite fantasy?' 

They'd been talking for what seemed like hours. Lou had produced some pot from his backpack, and started rolling a joint long and thin, the way he remembered John liked it, out of habit. 

'One lump or two, sir?'

John snorted a dismissive laugh.

'Fantasy,' he repeated the word, considering it. John began to speak, without processing or censoring anything. His voice rolled over Lou, slow and resounding. Lou smiled as he heard the old accent alter certain words, savouring the sweet green smell of pot flavouring the air.

'I used to have this recurring dream - every time I'd wake to find the sheets dirty,' 

Lou swallowed hard.

'I was in a restaurant, eend my eye would be sore, eend then I'd go blind, but just in this eye,' his fingertip brushed against his lashes as he pointed. 'Then I'd find the eye had changed, into a perfectly formed vagina eend then I wake up.'

Lou's eyes were wide with horror.

John passed the joint. 'There was another one like that,'

Lou took a deep breath of smoke to brace himself.

 

The television screamed again. A horrific orgy played, the girl’s skinny coked up bodies covered in blood. John thought idly that this was the point when he usually came. On an instinct, he reached for Lou, whose attention was glued to the screen.

John slipped his fingers under the band of Lou's pants easily. He felt his way without faltering, knowing the familiar pace and pressure.

Lou tried to make sense of the moment, but his mind felt muddied. John’s long, precise fingers continue to work. The television screams came in bursts, and each time, Lou held his breath, unnerved by the sound. 

John noticed everything: his lids low, and intent, as he watched for signs of Lou’s uncomfortable arousal. ‘I want to feel you from the inside. I want to fuck you,’ he bit off the word. 

Lou thrilled at his words. John was the only one that knew this side of him, now: the bottom, the bitchy queen. 

‘Say it,’ 

John forced him over, his great hand heavy on his neck. He stayed himself for a moment, pulling Lou’s thin pants down easily. ‘You’re a queen, and a queer and a faggot,’ he panted against him, pressing hard through the fabric. Lou spread his thighs at the pressure and John's fingers continued to work, teasing then insistent, slick with spit. John focused on making Lou's gasping mews as he came for him. He resisted the temptation for release, wanting Lou to beg to be fucked.

Their breathing came in gasps for cold air, the room stifled with their sweat and the stale heat of the day.

Suddenly the film ended, ejecting with a shrill beep.

Feeling seedy, Lou rolled away, reaching for his pants to clean himself off with. John grabbed for him, his eyes shut. He buried his face in the curls at Lou's neck, kneading the muscles of his arm, as though to make sure he was really there.

Lou felt himself relax into the touch, remembering a thousand heated kisses that tasted more of intoxication than the whisky that flavoured them. 

'I gotta split,'

John's eyes reproached him, but he merely pulled a cushion from under Lou's head. 

'See ya later, lover,' Lou said, with equal parts spite and cheek.

'I'm not gay,' John answered sulkily.

'Yeah, and I ain't a kike.'

John watched him toss aside his pants in a crumpled heap, as he climbed the stairs naked. There was a clutter as Lou found his wardrobe, and John seethed. He feigned sleep when Lou re-emerged, wearing too-tall slacks. 

'Don't you have any goddamn jeans?'

'Those are mine.' 

John shifted in the couch and felt a lump - Lou had left his stash. Well, that wouldn't last long. He smiled at Lou. He was going to be so pissed. John's smile brightened.

'You weird old fucker,' Lou said, affectionately.

John considered for a moment, remembering a half-forgotten line:

'Too rare to live, too weird to die.'


End file.
